


If ever the bell tolls

by BonestheGeek



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Friendship, I have tried to write this three times, Precognition, Secret Society, Telepathic Bond, Three Blasted Times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:46:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21589336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonestheGeek/pseuds/BonestheGeek
Summary: There are three truths that Wendell knows to be absolutely, irrevocably true.1. He owes everything he has to the people he loves.2. The Jeffersonian is his family. Claire is his family. And he will fight like hell to protect his family.3. Magic is painfully, beautifully real, and if Dr. Brennan ever found out, he'd never hear the end of it.
Relationships: canon pairings
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just realized how similarly structured this is to "If all you see is evil".
> 
> This isn't a companion story or a rewrite, it's actually a completely different direction from that story. It does still play on the "magic being hidden in plain sight" idea though.
> 
> I don't own Bones. This was written for enjoyment.

Through necessity, Wendell is very, very good at keeping parts of himself deeply hidden. 

There are little signs if anyone bothers to look. There's the fact that even in the dead of summer, he has never worn anything shorter than a three-quarter sleeve beneath his lab coat, and a quick inspection of his closet would reveal that he owns exactly _one_ tank top that is never worn. There are strange bottles and ingredients in his kitchen that only Angela has seen, and thank _fuck,_ never demanded answers about. He curses in Latin, which only Brennan recognizes. 

(She comments, of course, and he bullshits an answer about high school classes that sounds legitimate. Among other things, Wendell is very, very good at lying.) 

But here's the thing about signs: they only make sense if you understand what they mean. And Wendell comes from a long line of people just as good at hiding in plain sight as he is. 

The team never suspects. And sometimes, Wendell has to remind himself that's a good thing. 

* * *

The visions are harder to hide. 

They don't come with much of a warning and never have. As a result, they come...everywhere. At school. In bed. On public transit. At the grocery store. 

At work. 

The first time it happens on a case, he's six months into his first-year internship, examining a 16-year-old's stapes when it feels like a gong runs through his head and he stumbles, dropping the bone. He catches himself on the edge of the table and vaguely hears Dr. Brennan calling his name before the vision pulls his awareness. 

When he comes to, Dr. Saroyan is shining a flashlight in his eyes and asking him if he knows the date. 

The thing is, he works with Dr. Camille "I Have a Medical License" Saroyan, which means that his usual excuse of epilepsy isn't going to fly. He stumbles through something vaguely coherent until she stops him with her mouth in a thin line. 

"You don't have to disclose," she says, slipping him a card for a neurologist friend of hers. "But I'd rather you say nothing than lie to me." 

He shuts his mouth, and she sighs. 

"Is this going to affect your ability to work here?" she asks. 

He swallows. "I can't promise it's not going to happen again," he admits. 

She sits down next to him. "How often?" 

He shrugs. "Can't predict." 

"Dizzy spells? Fainting?" 

He looks away, mentally calculating if he's going to have to move. The other internships in the area pay less than this one. "Yeah." 

"Ok," she says. He hears her putting away the tools into the first aid kit. "We'll make it work." 

Not sure he heard her right, he snaps his head towards her. "What?" 

"Dr. Brey, forgive me if I refuse to fire a gifted intern over something that can be fixed with $50 cushioned mats." 

"Dr. Brennan..." 

"Is exacting, but not cruel. She wouldn't advocate for you being fired either. She actually wanted to be here to tell you that." She nodded her head towards the card. "My professional recommendation is that you make an appointment though." 

He nods, not sure if he's fully understanding. 

(He never goes to see Dr. Saroyan's friend, and she never asks. 

The next time he comes into work, though, there's some clear cushioned mats on and around the bone table, along with some cushioning on the sharp corners. The mats are sturdy, top of the line and definitely more than $50. No one mentions or asks, which Wendell very much appreciates). 

* * *

"You could tell them," Claire hedges on their weekly call. 

They don't really need to call on the phone, but it raises fewer eyebrows and it's easier than communicating halfway across the country. He runs a hand through his hair, grateful they chose the call so she can't sense the conflict in his head. 

_*Bullshit*_ he hears, the echo of an echo, and he has to shake his head to remind himself that strong thoughts still transfer. 

"You know I can't," he says. "The Council would have a _fit..._ " 

"Honestly, fuck The Council. Like no one's broken that rule before," She says, deadpan. "Otherwise, you-" 

"Wouldn't exist, I know," he finishes, sighing. "It's not just about that," he admits. "I just...I can't do it to them. I can't make them look around every corner and see more danger." 

"What about beauty?" She asks. "What about _you?"_

He looks out the window. _What about him?_

"I'm just an intern, Duck," he says. "They don't need to be that close." 

Claire snorts. "Bullshit," she says, but there's no heat. 

He's stuck. Just like her, just like the rest of them. And they both know it. 

* * *

Daisy...slips by him. 

See the bad part about hiding yourself is that it's really, really easy to assume everyone else is... _not._ And Daisy's damn good at playing the role of the ditzy, normal human, which means that Wendell doesn't actually figure it out until she grabs his arm and drags him into a closet after Intern Seminar. 

"Daisy, what?" He yelps, suddenly only thinking about how Daisy and Sweets are definitely a Thing and that he and Daisy fully are _not_ until Daisy pulls up her sleeve and all thought ceases. 

_Oh,_ he thinks, dumbly. " _Quales_?" 

" _Medicus."_ she replies. _"Et tu?"_

 _"Divinus,"_ he says, rolling up his sleeve in kind. Their arms face each other, the lines scored across them apparent, her three marks to his four. 

_"Divinus potens,"_ she mutters, surprised. 

He blinks. "How'd you know?" 

She snorts. "The only people I've ever seen swear in Latin are _praecantrix,"_ she points out, which is largely true. "And you swear a lot around midterms." 

He belatedly remembers that he'd asked Daisy to revise his last paper which definitely had some swear words he had to delete, and his skin flushes bright red. 

She pats his arm. " _Relax,_ " she tells him. "It's...nice. Not to be alone." 

He can appreciate the sentiment. 

* * *

Throughout twenty-six years of life experience, there are three truths that Wendell knows to be absolutely, irrevocably true. 

1\. He owes everything he has to the people he loves. 

2\. The Jeffersonian is his family. Claire is his family. And he will fight like hell to protect his family. 

3\. Magic is painfully, beautifully real, and if Dr. Brennan ever found out, he'd never hear the end of it. 


	2. Of false visions and hunters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendell stumbles, breathless with all-consuming panic. 
> 
> "Wendell?" Booth asks, mildly alarmed. 
> 
> Wendell shakes his head. No, this isn't a vision. His vision isn't swimming. He isn't going under. 
> 
> It's Claire. She feels like she's on the other side of glass, and he can't think of many reasons why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLOT!

Wendell's eyes snap open, a deep ache settling in his limbs. Gravity holds him down like a concerned friend; his skin feels uncomfortably warm against cold sheets. 

But there's this thing called "food" he kinda needs to buy, so with the practice of a man who worked full time to get himself through his undergrad degree, he gets out of bed anyway. 

Everything _burns_ so badly, up and down his arms. While making breakfast for himself he brushes his arm against the counter; all of a sudden his whole body tenses, like he hit an exposed nerve. He rolls up his sleeve and finds himself dumbfounded when he sees his marks, deep red and inflamed, on his arm. 

That's the first moment he considers calling into work. But he has this thing called "rent" he needs to pay, so with the practice of someone who has most _definitely_ gone to the Jeffersonian with a one hundred degree fever before, he continues getting ready for his day. 

_*You know I could call your boss and tell her how sick you are,"_ he hears, the echo of an echo of a bright, youthful voice. 

Wendell rolls his eyes even though Claire can't see him. _*Yep, and what are you going to say? 'Hi, I'm Wendell's friend. He's sick and shouldn't come into work today. Oh, how do I know? Well, you see, we have this telepathic connection and I can feel it when he's hurt.' Yeah. That'll work out great.*_

_*Wendell, you have paid sick leave.*_

_*That I would rather use in an emergency.*_ He rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. _*Besides. I don't think this is sick. At least not in the way you're thinking.*_

There's a beat. _*Oh,*_ she murmurs, quietly. _*Daisy?*_

_*I'll see her at work. Besides, I don't think this is something she can fix either.*_

Another beat. _*Oh. Damn.*_ He feels the ghost of paper on his fingertips. Claire's probably getting ready for school. _*You should call Cassidy,*_ she says, distractedly. 

_*Oh joy. I love calling Cassidy. It's my greatest joy in life.*_

_*Wendell*_ Claire sighs. This time he feels the ghost of a hardcover book and metal. _*I know you don't like her...*_

 _*I think we've made it very clear what I think of that soul-sucking, classist excuse for a...ow.*_ He hits his foot on a hardcover suitcase. 

Hardcover suitcase. 

_....Fuck,_ he thinks, belatedly remembering that they're all presenting at a conference this weekend and he packed last night. He's leaving with Hodgins directly from work. 

He has to get on a _plane_ like this. 

At least it's in Pennsylvania. He had a short trip home planned before he had to come back for school. He'll be able to see his Mom. And Claire. 

_*You forgot,_ * Claire says out of nowhere, and Wendell jumps, squinting against the sudden pounding headache. 

_*Blame it on the headache,*_ he says. _*Am I projecting?*_

_*More than usual. Are you sure you're ok to leave your building?*_

Wendell sighs. _*Yeah, I'll be fine. Te amo.*_

 _*Te amo.*_ Claire grumbles, about as happy as Wendell expected her to be. 

He sighs and goes about the rest of his business. She'll get it one day. 

Thirty minutes later, just before he's about to leave, he opens the door to a mildly annoyed Daisy Wick. 

* * *

Daisy Wick grew up _praecantrix._ She's from a long line of warriors, most more powerful than she is. Drop the name "Wick" in conversation at a Council Meeting and you'll get a response. 

Most healers Wendell knows are like Daisy -- light, energetic, caring to a fault. But Daisy's magic is...serious on her. Subdued. 

Thinking about how that occurred points Wendell in a supremely unpleasant direction. 

_"Stultus auto-sacrificandi. Tenere usque."_ She lets herself in, only allowing her hand to glow soft and golden when the door's fully shut. She holds it to the side of his face, mouth in a thin line. He closes his eyes and leans into the warmth. 

After several seconds, she groans in frustration and lowers her hand. "It's not _working_ ," she says, frustrated. "It's like there's nothing to heal." 

He opens his eyes, suddenly feeling cold despite the fire on his skin. "I don't think there ever was," he admits. 

Without warning, she reaches over and lifts up the sleeve on his right arm. He hisses, sharply. 

"...I've never seen a warning this violent," Daisy says. "Wendell..." 

"I'm fine," he says, yanking his sleeve back down. His expression softens when Daisy flinches. "I'm fine, I promise." 

She shakes her head. "This is intense..."

"I've also been having visions since I was thirteen. _Mihi crede._ "

 _"Ego credo te erant 'iens dicere quod vos adepto quod opus,"_ Daisy mutters. 

"Daisy, just..." He runs his hand through his hair. "I'll tell you if it goes south, ok? But staying at home isn't going to help and I can't get a refund for the conference fee, so we might as well go." 

It takes several moments, but he sees the moment when she caves. "The _instant..._ " she warns him, leaning over to grab his bag. 

He taps his forehead, simultaneously projecting a very annoyed emotion across the country. "I think she'll keep me honest," he says simply.

Daisy laughs, showing her bubbly personality for the first time since the conversation started. "Now that, I think we can agree on," she says. 

Claire's response to Wendell's projection is the mental equivalent of sticking her tongue out. 

* * *

He works for guard dogs, which makes it harder. 

Every time his shirt brushes against his marks, it feels like sandpaper. He's also only somewhat coherent, which essentially translates to the world's worst hangover. Everything is bright and loud and exhausting, and thank God for Daisy because she essentially leads him around the airport. 

He _knows_ everyone has noticed, but the excuses fly from his mind like doves. When Dr. Saroyan sits down for the fourth time and asks him if he should really be here, he groans. 

"I don't have a fever, Cam," he points out. 

"And you saying that just makes me more concerned," she says. 

Daisy's mouth goes into a thin line like she privately agrees but won't say so out of loyalty. 

"Dr. Saroyan," Dr. Brennan says, sitting down beside her. "This is a very important opportunity for Dr. Brey's academic career. If he isn't communicable, it only makes sense that he does not miss it." 

Dr. Brey sighs a sigh of relief. Thank God for Dr. Temperence "Workaholic" Brennan. "Thanks, Dr. B," he murmurs. 

"That said," Dr. Brennan says, holding Wendell with her deep blue eyes. _Merda,_ he thinks, violently. "If you don't feel well enough that you can do your job, maybe you should stay home and recover. After all, we wouldn't want you to be sick when you're on primary rotation next week."

He groans again, massaging a spot on his temple. "I'll be fine," he says again. "Why doesn't anyone believe me?" 

"Probably because you've come into work with the flu before," Hodgins comes over and deadpans. 

"I wasn't that sick," Wendell protests weekly. 

"Dude," Hodgins replies. "You had a hundred-degree fever and you vomited in the bathroom." 

"And I still found the cause of death," Wendell points out. 

"Yeah," Hodgins says. "Because you were inspecting the bones with your eyes closed cause the light was too bright." 

"Hodgins, stop," Wendell says, commanding, with his eyes closed. "I'm fine, ok guys? No fever, no illness. I'm fine. It's just bad allergies." 

_Bad allergies._ The lie slips off his tongue like usual. It shouldn't make him feel guilty, because he's been lying to nearly everyone he knows since he was six years old, but God does his gut clench in. 

Serupticiously, Dr. Saroyan looks up at Daisy, who uncomfortably nods behind Wendell's back. 

Ok. They'll go with it for now. 

* * *

The conference isn't quite as loud as the airport, mostly because it's an FBI conference filled with serious suits that aren't much like Booth. The lights do, however, suck more. After watching him squint at everything for half an hour, Booth takes pity on him and lends him his sunglasses. They help, more than Wendell wants to admit, honestly. All these years later and asking for help still leaves him with a stomach ache. 

Their presentation is on the docket for that afternoon. Angela, of all people, is the one that corners him right before they go to check the AV equipment. "Wendell, we're all worried about you. Are you sure you're going to be ok?" 

Once upon a time, Wendell had been certain that lying to Angela was fully temporary. Once upon a time, she'd seen his marks, when they'd been in bed on a lazy Sunday morning and he told her that they were birthmarks, which was the closest to the truth that he'd ever dared. Once upon a time, he'd believed that more than Sarah, this was the woman that he loved.

Then she broke up with him. He's mourned that part of his life already, moved past it. Sometimes though, in the dead of night, the fact that he never told her comes to haunt him. 

He takes a deep breath. Daisy's in the presentation room already. He has no defender here. What stands between them is everything he can't say. That his marks are _swollen,_ that something is _deeply, deeply wrong;_ what, he doesn't know. Being a _divinus_ comes with a familiar feeling of disorientation at all times, but this is the worst he's ever experienced. 

There's such a gap between what Angie's expecting and what Wendell can actually give her.

"I'm fine, Angie," he mutters, moving past her. "Just fine." 

(More than anyone else, he doesn't expect her to believe him. But the fact that she doesn't try to grab him hurts, a little). 

* * *

He feels this sudden, almost foreign burst of nervousness and foreboding as he gets on the stairs. 

He assumes that it has to do with the fact that he's about to give three slides of a presentation on his work in front of 150 agents. 

He swallows. His mouth has gone dry. 

"Good morning," Agent Booth starts. "My name is Special Agent Sealey Booth, and I'm the liaison between the D.C. FBI field office and the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal lab." 

The presentation starts, and it goes well. Even Dr. Brennan doesn't manage to sound too arrogant during her section, which is nothing less than a Christmas miracle. 

He clears his throat. "I'm Dr. Wendell Brey, I'm one of the interns at the medico-legal lab. I-" 

That's all he gets out before _something_ explodes in his chest. 

Wendell stumbles, breathless with all-consuming panic. 

"Wendell?" Booth asks, mildly alarmed. 

Wendell shakes his head. No, this isn't a vision. His vision isn't swimming. He isn't going under. 

_*Duck?*_ He sends out, in his mind. He was right. Something feels very, very wrong. _*Duck??*_

It's Claire. She feels like she's on the other side of the glass, and he can't think of many reasons why.

He looks up into Daisy's serious face in front of him, his face pale, his eyes wide. "Claire," he says, quietly. "I can't hear her, Daise." 

That gets her attention. She grabs his arm tightly, ushering him out the stage. "Cover us," she barks at Dr. Saroyan. Wendell doesn't catch her shocked expression as the doors close behind them. 

Wendell immediately grabs his phone, hands shaking. It gets to the point that Daisy has to grab the phone from him and press the button herself. She hands it back to him and he holds it to his ear, heart pounding.

_"Hey, this is Claire. Leave me a message after the beep. Bonus fortuna."_

His heart drops. _*Claire!?*_

Nothing. Not even the echo of an echo. 

The marks. _Divinus_ sickness. It's all lead him here. It was a _warning._

He didn't listen. 

That's when the doors slam open and Booth comes out, his mouth in a grim line. "Wendell, you're from Charlestown, right?" 

Booth isn't supposed to need to ask. Wendell _told_ him, has told him a few times, in fact. He drives home for holidays when he can afford the gas and spends the rest of his holidays with Booth and Parker because the man can't bear to let him spend it alone. 

"There's a body. The Jeffersonian was asked to consult." 

Every muscle, every sinew, every bone in Wendell's body freezes. 

_*CLAIRE???*_

There's no answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> Stultus auto-sacrificandi. Tenere usque. -- Self-sacrificing idiot. Hold still.  
> Mihi crede. -- Trust me.  
> Ego credo te erant 'iens dicere quod vos adepto quod opus -- I trust you to say whatever you have to to get into work.  
> Merda -- Shit  
> Divinus -- Seer  
> Bonus Fortuna -- Good Fortune

**Author's Note:**

> Translations are all from Google Translate. Mistakes are mine.  
> Quales? -- What kind?  
> Medicus -- Healer  
> Et tu? -- And you?  
> Divinus -- Seer  
> Divinus potus -- Powerful seer


End file.
